Bosco's Fiasco
by antimach
Summary: Narcotics, firearms, an ass kicking soundtrack, an anthropomorphic tiger, an anthropomorphic wolf, and the urge to uncover and destroy the dark side of Disney. Prepare the bong! You'll need it.
1. Contemplation of a Catatonic Romp

BEHOLD! THE DISCLAIMER! Any reference that does not pertain to my own originality is not owned by me. You know what? Why the fuck do I even bother with these goddamn disclaimers? What are the chances that some fatback representative of Disney is going to wonder over to the originals section of a fanfiction website and sue good old AntiMach for this little ditty of a story? I would guess the same chances of Michael Jackson turning black again. Either way, they'd both go back to their roots. If you feel offended by some of the cruelty displayed here, then I would suggest that your mentally masochistic ass back the hell up a few pages. This is hardcore stuff baby! In the words of Dave Attell, "Welcome to Oz bitch!"  
  
Contemplation of a Catatonic Romp  
  
The sun was not welcoming exercise today in this humid, torrid, relentless Floridian climate. Anyone who attempted to work out their cardiovascular system in a way that did not involve a body of water would eventually find that bottle of Zephyrhills-with enough time-would be dripping onto the cement from collapse. Bosco knew this, and this is why Bosco remained in his comfortable, perpetually cool and quaint apartment. The apartment complexes were of a Spanish-style, with maroon, arch-like shingles covering the roof and beige stucco for walls. Being an anthropomorphic, bi-pedal, Amur tiger had its advantages. Theoretically being one of your kind meant backing from the government. This meant that if any fur-hungry foreign assholes wanted a piece of Bosco, they would have to deal with irascible, savage tiger lovers armed with lawyers who could potentially send them to the evil place where the almighty and terrible Bubba dwelled. Bosco had been bestowed a generous amount of income from the government-most of which he had invested in a liberal amount of catnip, various assortments of ganja, liquor, firearms, explosives, hallucinogens, and of course, eggnog and large slabs of any meat on sale at your local Publix. He believed that life should be lived to his fullest, as there is no place in the bible where it says that animals would be resurrected. With the amount of money he possessed, he could have chosen a more ostentatious environment, but Bosco chose to remain inconspicuous, as difficult as that can be for someone like him. To describe Bosco's demeanor would mean combining every type of drug-addict known to man and giving it the instinct, strength and speed of a tiger. But of course, he is not entirely depraved. Most of the narcotics he partakes of render him docile anyway. 23-year old Bosco has the face of a tiger, but the ability to contort his mouth like that of a human in order to accomplish speech. He has a black, wild mane that obscures his forehead and almost touches the shoulders. It does not, however, grow under the chin like a lion. His ears are like that of a tiger, a sort of curving, furry triangle. He's 6'11, 389 pounds with a muscular, endo-mesomorphic build. His eyes are light green, typical for a tiger yet at the same time hinted his human features. Even though he is predominantly animalistic, he does not shy from pants or Hawaiian shirts torn at the sleeves. Even in the largest size, however, they are usually rather snug, and the pants always had holes to accommodate his tail. He always wears a black collar lined with wicked chrome spikes. Bosco knows all to well how easily a jugular can be pierced. Several unsuspecting deer and women he had gotten too frisky with knew this as well. An affluent Scottish couple had adopted Bosco at the tender age of 3. From then on they gave him nothing but the finest education and his Scottish father taught him the ancient art of Drunken Muy Thai fighting, which involved fatal, adroit fighting tactics with as much alcohol as the body could accommodate without causing swooning. By the age of 16, Bosco was massively built and rather disturbingly, popular with the ladies (who can blame them? It's Scotland for fuck's sake.) Bosco had a promising future...until he was exposed to the semi-truck smuggling marijuana from Switzerland that ran over a psychotic with a flamethrower. Once exposed, Bosco was never the same. Upon experiencing the mind-warping effects, Bosco made it his life objective to locate the cause of this disorientating yet floating feeling. His searches eventually lead him to somewhere in Jamaica. From then on came a life of luxury in the tropics and black guys with dreads mongering the wonderful leafy substance. His parents were not ashamed or worried. After all, they knew the "All Tigers go to Heaven" was a bunch of bullshit and they wanted him to have a good time. They were highly educated and functional alcoholics, and they loved Bosco. A couple law suits to poachers and recognition from the government eventually lead him to his cozy, quaint apartment in Florida. Considering his hobbies, his apartment was kept rather nicely, with only a few articles of clothing and a glass or plate strewn about. Though tigers tend to be solo animals, Bosco defied this tendency. He had a good acquaintance by the name of Tommy, a 19-year old tan-colored, 6'3, 193 pound anthropomorphic wolf with a sinewy, ectomorphic build and gray eyes. Not much is known about Tommy, as he would accept no interviews and constantly thwarted attempts of acquiring knowledge by threatening to rape any female inquirers and vivisect all males. Tommy shared Bosco's drug habits, and they usually tried to get a look at each other's view on life. This often caused drug-driven romps that took them to the far reaches of the earth by means of Bosco's wealth. But no romps today. Not in this hell- spawned climate. Not even a visit to the pool would be on the schedule. Today was a day of relaxation. Bosco arose from his black, leather Lazy Boy and sauntered across the light- brown wooden floors into the Spanish-tiled kitchen. He foraged the fridge, procured the eggnog, rummaged the cabinets, and got the vodka and a tall glass. Some thinning of the blood and strengthening of the bones, Bosco thought. Alcoholism spawned some sort of queer, inductive logic in him. "The thinning of the blood gives bones incentive to work even harder with the milk facilitating the incentive to get that blood brewing," Bosco could hear himself preaching like that of your standard M.D. Grabbing both bottles, he poured the contents into the glass, quaffed the rest of the cream and the vodka, disposed of the bottles via the window (they could always be recycled...and it was quite obvious that Bosco believed that a house kept tidy on the inside was far more important than on the outside) then proceeded to bring the glass with him back to his recliner. Life was peachy, and ripe for the picking. Tommy had been traversing his way across the lawn with a pamphlet gripped in his right paw over to Bosco's dwelling. Investigation was necessary upon reading the words "The Happiest Place On Earth" with a giant black and white anthropomorphic mouse grinning merrily between your stereotypical, jovial, white suburban family with a light blue castle looming over them from behind. Suspicions arose from Tommy upon eyeing the pamphlet, as his view of the happiest place on earth did not involve a walking mouse, but rather, a lot of women that looked like that cheery wife in the picture- just scantily dressed, and brandishing a tray of various mind-warping substances. Tommy had made his way to the screen door and gave it a few raps to let himself be known. Bosco groaned, aggravated by the sudden disturbance of his relaxation. He staggered his way to the door, glass in hand. The drink was taking effect, as it should after about a quart of it. Luckily, there was 389 pounds of alcohol-thirsty Bosco to accommodate it, so he would not be vomiting the next morning. He slid open the screen door and gave Tommy a very careless look. "Something worthy of walking in this hellish climate brought you here I'm presuming?" Bosco inquired. Tommy said nothing and walked passed Bosco, sprawled out on the couch and slapped the pamphlet down on Bosco's marble and cherry wood coffee table. "This title is speculative," Tommy stated, gesturing at the pamphlet. Bosco walked over and observed the cover. "Disney World," Bosco read. "This alleged Happiest Place on Earth," Tommy lectured, "was fathomed by a suspected commie. I looked into it and at first the guy seemed clean, but the more research I did, the more I realized what bastard Walt really was. They got this guy for philandering, alcoholism, overworking his employees- hell, he had an obsession with work himself. His woman had to strap him to a chair to get this guy to take a break. Most of all, the guy never gave credit where credit was due. This scumbag even bought out the same people that elevated him to his fame." "Your point being?" Bosco retorted indifferently, "He's human." "The guy had a fucking reputation man, a sideshow of whimsy characters that fed his happy-go-lucky idealistic bullshit to the public. When a man like that starts a company his Jeckyl doesn't die with him. This company's besmirched. The damn Disney cartoons themselves are now strewn with lascivious subliminal messages and images. I wouldn't care if he wasn't such a hypocrite, but this guy's the Hitler of the cartoonist world." Bosco nodded his head, intrigued by Tommy's argument. "So what do you propose?" Tommy shrugged. "Questions need to be answered," Tommy affirmed, "life must be lived. We shall enter this cesspool of hypocrisy and investigate. Of course they'll catch on to us. The bastards always do as organized as they are. Luckily the fact that we're one of a kind should keep the blood-sucking miscreants away for a while. We have individuality on our side, and besides, how will it look on the newspapers if Disney winds up killing of the world's few anthropomorphic animals?" "They wouldn't be so overt about it," Bosco informed Tommy. "It's indubitable that they'll have contacts with the mafia. We'll have some slack when it comes to illegal activities, but we can't push it too far. Discretion and stealth will be absolutely imperative to survive." Tommy nodded his head in agreement with Bosco. "We'll need the drugs for coping and interrogation purposes. They'll talk easier with the right brew. We'll nab any guy we can. The Arabian kid, that Mermaid bitch, they're all in on it. "Don't forget firearms," Bosco suggested, "if things get hardcore, explosives may be the only alternative. A bright flash, a loud boom, a mad dash to the night-colored LaSebring. If we're quick enough they'll think it the work of some Al-Quieda member or some shit. Terror alert is perpetually high nowadays." "A cart of grenades, and a few Magnums," Tommy stated. "Nothing too serious." "Where is the place?" Bosco inquired. "Across the Tampa Bay Bridge and onto Orlando. That electric, steel idol of that depraved mouse's head will let us know we're close." "Jesus," Bosco muttered in disbelief. "What's this world coming to?" Bosco rose up out of his chair. "We pack now and ride tomorrow," Bosco declared. "What type of goods you think this trip will need?" Tommy asked. Bosco cocked his head in excogitation. "Mescaline, cocaine, Maui Waui, Colt 45, mushrooms, opium, sunshine acid, thorazine. Inconspicuous cameras and a tape recorder, the pocket-sized ones. Audio and visuals will be needed for proof in case anyone dares to refute our claims. Compact Discs of Bob Marley, System of a Down, Cinder, Nirvana and Alice in Chains. Jimi Hendrix and Frank Zappa as well. We'll need music for morale you see." Bosco squinted. "Got any ether?" Tommy nodded his head. "We skimp on the Colt 45 then. The ether will provide us with the intoxicating effects of alcohol without the space. We can use that space for sustenance. Slim Jims, Funions, Sun Chips, Grapefruit, ice and eggnog...oh!" Bosco's eyes widened upon the remembrance of another important item. "Catnip as well." Tommy sneered. "Lucky fuck. Only drug specialized for felines and it's good for you. The hell do us wolves have?" "It's called a leg when it's that time of the year," Bosco retorted with a smirk. "Fuck you and not in the fun way," Tommy snapped at Bosco irately. Bosco chuckled. "Let's get started. You can rest us here. After we're done we can partake of eggnog and rum and feast upon T-bone steak. After that, some ganja will be in order of course." "A fine gesture comrade," Tommy replied, "but how the fuck can you drink that queer nog and alcohol shit? One whiff of that swill and it's like Santa's been getting his groove on upon your kitchen table." Bosco tisked. "It's an acquired taste appreciated by those like myself. Just more calcium for me I suppose." Bosco entered his bedroom, rummaged the closet, and procured an orange Jansport backpack, a white and blue Rubbermaid cooler (the shoulder strap type,) and a hefty black MacGregor bag outlined in gray. Tommy supervised and made sure no piece of cargo was neglected. Bosco's clothing consisted of multi-colored Hawaiian shirts and baggy fitting jeans of blue, orange and black. He also grabbed a few cigar boxes full of cash. He believed banks were treacherous. He then acquired the aforementioned narcotics out of a broken slot machine that he had bought from a gypsy in a New Jersey Pawn Shop. The last thing someone expected to get from winning the jackpot was a kilo of ganja, so Bosco felt that this was delightfully covert. Tommy perpetually wore some colored wifebeater and a pair of cut-off jeans. He would not wear anything if it were not for the authorities. Bosco had made sure not to pack while under the influence of narcotics. He learned the hard way last time when he visited Africa and had only a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, some Tony the Tiger pajamas, and a pack of Andy Capp's Hot Fries. Having gotten the supplies, both Tommy and Bosco stumbled their way to the screen door. Tommy had forgotten that he was inside Bosco's home and knocked upon Bosco's screen door. "OPEN UP DAMNIT!" Tommy commanded. Bosco shook his head in amazement at the sheer mind absence of Tommy. "Maybe it's sound proof," Bosco suggested. Tommy did a double take between the screen door and Bosco's home. "Coast is clear," Tommy announced. Bosco leered at him dubiously. "You can never be too careful," Tommy warned. Without anymore asinine antics, they successfully managed to get the supplies to the trunk of the vehicle. "What's the top speed on this bitch?" Tommy asked. "Fast enough," Bosco quipped. "Try telling that to a crackhead," Tommy said, "they'll be grinning in your face and slicing open your abdomen in a split-second. The talcum-powder- snorting bastards move like a nitrogen injected comet." Bosco unsheathed his claws and grinned maniacally. Tommy smiled sinisterly as well as if to be agreeing with Bosco. "Thank you god for your exclusive offer on ten free pocket knives," Tommy jested. They retired to the house for food and ganja. They made the mistake of smoking first, their minds warping and thought patterns erratic, as if they were entering another dimension. Grinning maniacally with those Chinese eyes, they ran to the counter, ripped open the packages meat feverishly, slapped the slabs of meat on the table...and then proceeded to lightly flavor it with some A1 sauce. "Where's the fucking sangria?" Tommy demanded. Bosco snatched a bottle from the fridge and took two wine glasses from the cabinets. Tommy sneered. "Wine glasses? The fuck do you think this? Italy? Let's just drink it from the bottle." "You tactless bastard," Bosco scoffed, "this is for the mere facilitation of the digestion process and nothing else." Tommy shrugged and tore into his slab of steak hungrily. Bosco replicated this action. Bosco's original plan was to have two glasses of wine, but whenever an alcohol/drug abuser states the amount of substance he or she will intake, you must multiply the amount of intake by the number of years the person has been abusing. This meant that some wacky, wine brewing Frenchman would be chugging his own brew tonight. After a meal, red wine has the tendency to multiply its effect. Where you once drank two glasses, you now feel as if you drank four. This was a similar situation with Tommy and Bosco. Where once the floor seemed like a menial place of sleep, it was the equivalent of a siesta in The Hanging Gardens of Babylon after a half a bottle of sangria and 3 hefty blunts. Had they been women and had PMS, they could have managed to wipe out the entire state of Florida with a few lashings of their tongue and have the Bermuda Triangle run red with blood, but that was just the red wine. "Sweet cream of the gods," Bosco cooed, "oh how I desire such drink along with rum brewed by luscious, voluptuous Puerto Rican women." "You know, Dave Attell theorizes that eggnog is actually elf cum," Tommy said in a garbled voice, "you might as well pour some on you back and slap yourself on the..." "SILENCE YOU SAVAGE!" Bosco bellowed, and then added smugly, "Besides, how do you know it's not female elf cum?" Tommy scratched his chin. "We need some elven women," he stated. Bosco has already stumbled his way back to the fridge and acquired the nog and rum. He swigged some nog, and then some rum, gargled, swallowed, released a sigh of satisfaction and commented, "Mmm, delicious. It's like Lord of the Rings meets Cheech and Chong." Tommy passed on the drinks and then proceeded to pass out. Bosco reclined on his recliner, with rum bottle and nog carton in both hands. He wondered about the adventure tomorrow in this place of whimsy hypocrisy. Was this guy really such a shmuck? Bosco pondered. If so, why the fey characters? Most companies with underground illegitimate operations set up Italian restaurants or a Denny's. Judging by the massive expanse of this park, if it were to have an underground, then it would be no surprise to Bosco to discover thousands of Ethiopian children underground weaving Mickey Mouse ears with a burly, hirsute guy in a leather Disney jacket with a whip, coercing them to slave harder...and reminding them to have bright, cheerful smile in the process. It was time for rest. Bosco could not afford to fret over their future destination. However, once angst over future proceedings occurred, that seed of worry would sprout in a dream. And what a fucked up dream he had. Bosco began to open his eyes gradually. As light poured into them, Bosco grimaced. He was a bit confused when he saw silver, horizontal bars obstructing his view; but perhaps the bars were a blessing because behind the bars stood a massive, blood-colored wooden podium, approximately 50 feet tall and 15 feet wide. Even more odd was that the podium seemed to bend over Bosco, as if to be silently rebuking him like a parent rebuking his child. On top of the podium, was the Walt himself. Walt, however, did not look like a man who could fathom cute, cuddly characters. He did, however, look like he could lead a Nazi regime. This was because Walt was adorned in the attire of Hitler himself, the clothing used in many of his speeches. The only difference was that the patch on his shoulders had a Mickey Mouse head under the Nazi emblem. Walt even had Hitler's moustache. Even more bizarre was that his eyes were red and looked as if to be on fire, staring down at Bosco with depraved intentions. He seemed larger than anything around him, as if he were some sort of animating, Nazi Nephelim. The Mickey Mouse ears he wore on his head made the image of him even more outlandish. His skin was gray, completely incongruent with the surroundings, which too were overwhelming with Nazi vibes. Once Bosco took the time too look around, he realized that he was in a cage just small enough to accommodate him and his colleague Tommy. Tommy was in orange, v- necked, sleeveless prison attire. He looked rather despondent. Bosco noticed he was in the same adornments. He tried to move his extremities, but they had been restrained by steel cuffs and chains locked onto a stool which was bolted to a black, iron floor. He and Tommy would not be going anywhere. This podium was much like that of a court podium, with witness stand on the right and clerk stand on the left. In the clerk stand was Pocahontas in a business suit, giving them a stony glare, fingers ready to translate the witness' claims to markings on paper. It was not just paper however. On the podium was a huge projection screen illuminated by an unseen projector. A blue dot was in the center of it. In the witness stand was the adult Nala, looking cute and innocent with a look you would expect to see on a five year old girl after her red-necked step dad had slapped her silly for not plowing the back 40. Bosco did not like the look of this. He was not sure what they had done wrong, but the words "false allegations" and "I simply want you dead" came to mind. Bosco took to the time to pan over his surroundings. He wish he had not. He was in a colossal dome, with great stone spires supporting the black, iron roof. The spires were decorated with winding torches. But what was most terrifying, was that all the balconies, all the front-row seats, all the benches winding up to the top, were inundated with every Disney character ever made, and all of them were staring at Bosco and Tommy venomously. The Mickey Mouse ears with the Nazi emblem on the audience did not make the sight less tolerable either. The Mickey Mouse club was the figurehead jury, and wore outfits similar to Disney's. "Nala," Disney began with a voice that could have been mistaken for Satan's own, "on the evening of October the Third, what events do you recall?" Upon these words, Pocahontas began typing rapidly. As Disney spoke, (and Bosco presumed anyone that spoke on podium) the words formed upon the projector like some military subliminal message video. The blue dot began jumping fluidly atop of words upon their completion. Nala cleared her throat and said acerbically, "Well, at the time I was busy doing some work for Greenpeace, and I saw these too in the medicinal herb area. They were terrorizing the help and chasing deer with axes. One of them..." Nala began weeping. "One of them chopped off Bambi's head and used it for charades. He had always been my favorite Uno player." Bosco and Tommy of course had done none of these things though he had once procured a flamethrower and tried to burn down the Yellowstone Forest thinking that the Ents from Lord of the Rings had gone bad after a few hits of P.C.P. Suddenly, a 50 foot golden idol of Mickey Mouse appeared before the podium of Disney in a giant puff of smoke. A bunch of swarthy, lean men in leaf loin clothes and bull skulls on their heads were beating on drums. Suddenly, Bosco felt the cage rise before him, and hatchway appeared before the idol of Mickey Mouse. It was a 30-foot pit of magma below them, and Bosco and Tommy found themselves descending into it. The terror was taboo, and the need for a pack of Mentos great. They then heard the terrifying last words of Disney. "MY CHILDREN," Disney announced, his voice reverberating in the great dome, the red and white Nazi Disney curtains flapping from an unfelt wind. "WE CAN NOT TOLERATE THE DEPRAVITY AND REBELLION OF THE MINORITY CARTOONS! ONCE CLEANSED OF THE EARTH, WE WILL WROUGHT FORTH A NEW ORDER!" Disney went through a number of bizarre and rigid gestures while talking. Thank you Hanson, for being such a wonderful, mind-warping asshole and teaching Hitler unnecessary people skills. Disney then gave a zealous Nazi salute. Upon the salute, every Disney character-Goofy, Mickey, Donald Duck, the Seven Dwarfs, all of them, gave a zealous Nazi salute to Disney. Upon this salute, the crowd roared with vehemence, "HEIL DISNEY!" Bosco yelped as he sprung up out of his recliner in a Muy Thai fighting stance, and then wondered where he learned Muy Thai in the first place. He shook his head and yawned. The dream had disturbed him, and he hoped that it had not been some sort of drug-spawned precognition-if drugs were capable of such things anyway. The sun was peeking over the horizon, gradually turning the light blue to a dark orange. The quest for truth, justice, and the pursuit of drugged dementia began. Bosco walked up to the slumbering Tommy, who was snoring rather loudly and leaving a trail of saliva from his maw to Bosco's wooden floor. Bosco grabbed a nearby bottle of rum from off of his cherry wood nightstand and poured the rum into Tommy's mouth. Tommy's eyes sprung open, immediately recognizing the scent and taste of the beverage and with innate talent turned his esophagus into a funnel to accommodate the intoxicating beverage. "Let's go," Bosco chirped. He sauntered out of the house, leaving the screen door open, as he expected Tommy to close it on his way out. Tommy stood up and staggered, hand on head, fumbling his way to the door. He too, neglected to close it. He figured thieves would find this entrance too accessible, and would sense an ambush. Bosco had already made the necessary preparations. The bass was turned up to a deep but not overwhelming setting. The treble just crisp enough to hear every word and guitar rift clearly, the volume just loud enough to permit ambience. Bosco had remembered to jam a bunch of blue ice packs into the cooler, so the nog would still be delicious. The morning was windy, but hinted the hot, sultry weather to come in just a matter of hours. Tommy hopped into the front passenger side with a six-pack of Michelob in his right paw and a black .45 Colt Python in the other. "You're driving, and I'm damn sure going to take full advantage of that fact," Tommy stated, reclining in the leather seating and popping open a Michelob and sighing happily. "Don't rub it in you furry bastard," Bosco snapped, "you're driving on the way back if we manage to survive this precarious escapade." "Of course we'll survive," Tommy assured, "we're on a mission of ethics, and besides, we're anthropomorphic for Christ Sake. No humans could pull this shit off." Bosco titled his head briefly. "Tis true.let us be off." The engine came to life smoothly, a mechanical purring coming to life simultaneously with Alice in Chains' "Sludge Factory" blaring from Boston Acoustic speakers, blending mellifluously in the vehicle as the top of the LaSebring rolled down. "And so it begins," Bosco muttered, pulling out of the parking lot, leaving the complex, and tooling on a residential drag to the freeway to reach a big place called Orlando.  
  
That's all for now folks! Tune in again for more drug-addled dementia with your favorite loveable tiger and wolf! And be sure to bring more booze next time to keep your sanity! 


	2. Vindictive Lion Man with Two Smoking Bar...

Vindictive Lion Man with Two Smoking Barrels  
  
While Bosco and Tommy were making their were to the plausible dangers of Disney World, a character by the name of Johnny Mitch Rocko was sauntering the streets of Ybor city, basically looking for someone to beat down or blow up, but not necessarily a someone. Something would suffice at the moment, as 32-year old Johnny was perpetually pissed. Though Johnny's animalistic features are not as prominent as Bosco's or Tommy's, they were still there. Johnny is a 6'7 battle-hardened man with a few physical characteristics of a lion. He has a wild, spiked red mane and a beard that obscures the chin bones and forms into a goatee. His eyes are always blocked by black, round goggles. His teeth are fang-like, giving the hint that this man obviously prefers his steaks rare. He wears a light-brown leather duster. Underneath the duster is a red, buttoned, sleeveless suit vest made of a thread-like material. He wears baggy, dark brown slacks and standard issue military-boots. He has the ears of a lion, which poke out just a bit above his hair. He also has the tail of a lion, which he lets flail about. He thinks it rather invigorating to decapitate someone via by hand if some asshole thought it humorous to pull on it. It was like bait for imbeciles. Though you do not tend to see it, he is a bit hirsute, but considering the man is part lion that is to be expected. As you can expect, people tend to have a hard time accepting Johnny's lion- like features. Unlike most discarded individuals of society, however, Johnny did not weep and run to the nearest guidance counselor. His special features simply gave him a reason to kick peoples' ass, and that is pretty much what gets Johnny through life. Needless to say, there were not many school systems willing to accept a teenager that came built in with ten four-inch daggers as nails and the strength of...well, a lion. That was peachy too. There were always libraries, and libraries would accept you even if you were a giant, pulsating blob of Smucker's Strawberry Jam with car jacks as hands-just as long as you cleaned off the books and helped a guy change his oil. Johnny learned how to read by holding an English professor at gunpoint, and once he had possessed an ample amount of knowledge of the English language, he blew off the head of the Professor, put him in a tree crusher, and then used him for his special 5-Alarm chili. Johnny felt you could never be too careful with nobles. With a life of violence and reading, Johnny became a multi-faceted homicidal connoisseur. The librarians loved him for assassinating the rambunctious assholes that came into the library and downloaded music that involved repetitious bass thumps and endless double, triple, and quadruple negatives. At the tender age of 17, Johnny was ready to take on the world. Three days later, he single-handedly took over a cat house, wondered why they called it a cat house, then wondered why the fuck did he even care about the name in the first place, and walked out several hours later with a new-found respect for women and their strange ability to find new ways to vacate a male. He also walked out of there with a two-barrel shotgun after beating some elderly bastard's ass that kept mentioning something about 'staying away from his daughters.' Ever since then, Johnny made a living killing livestock, killing people that fat Italians ask him to kill, killing fat Italians, offing Chucke E. Cheese establishments, and pick-pocketing unsuspecting homosexuals in gay bars and pride parades who would think he was copping feel and then find themselves tossed in front of a steam roller. Ironically, Johnny had nothing against homosexuals. He just hated rainbows and Elton John, and because of this fact they all had to die. He also felt people from Greenpeace and the CIA had to die too, as well as the three corpulent men somewhere in Germany that were controlling the world behind the curtains, but most importantly, hippies had to die-especially the ones named Bosco and Tommy. Ten years ago Johnny encountered Bosco and Tommy in a bar in Jersey known as "Your Head in a Paint Mixer." Bosco and Tommy had been relaxing in their stools drinking Michelobs when they suddenly requested to the bartender that CNN be switched to "Rocko's Modern Life." Johnny felt it necessary to know what was going on in his world and what needed killing, and he loathed anything that had his name and was in no way in reference to him-especially a personified wallaby in an Acapulco shirt. 'You goddamn-dirty-Tim-Leary-loving bastards!' Johnny had insulted the two. 'Real bloodbaths involving flesh tearing steel and fire are transpiring and you want to watch a fucking wallaby do his spring cleaning.' The bartender at the time knew that bludgeoning objects would be thrown, so he put on his baseball face guard helmet, unholstered a .50 Desert Eagle and aimed it at Johnny. 'It's my favorite episode you Simba-looking-sonafabitch," the bartender hissed. Both Bosco and Tommy were rather blazed at the moment from the previous partaking of a pipe containing their daily dosage of ganja. They were rather indifferent to Johnny's needs at the moment; they would lose their indifference, however, when Johnny hastily procured his shotgun from his duster and blew the bartender asunder. The bar now had new, pulpy and red wallpaper. 'I hate that fucking movie,' Johnny snarled. A shotgun blast whizzing by the heads of Bosco and Tommy was enough to snap them out of their stupor. Something would have to be done, and they would not be able to put it off for later like many of their minor responsibilities, like turning the gas off, putting the car in park before stopping, stopping the car before exiting, and making sure the juice they drank was fresh and not that concentrated rubbish. Tommy unholstered his .45 Colt Python and attempted to pistol whip Johnny. Due to the mind- fucking traits of marijuana, Tommy missed, and the momentum of his blow had him twirl and fall to the ground. Johnny blinked. 'It's called pulling the trigger,' Johnny piqued, 'better luck at the pearly gates you Balto-looking-leg-fucker.' Johnny cocked the shotgun and aimed it at Tommy. Bosco, however, assumed his Muy Thai stance. Johnny looked to Bosco dubiously. "Nice style, mine's called Clint Eastwood after a PCP hit," Johnny quipped, his shotgun now at Bosco's head. "Yeah?" Bosco said arrogantly, looked to the right of Johnny, and exclaimed with his eyes wide-open, "LOOK! SALMA HAYEK GREW A CUCUMBER GARDEN AND SHE'S MEASURING THEM BLIND-FOLDED!" 'Bullshit,' Johnny stated, 'Salma Hayek is boffing some rapper wearing a cowboy hat in a hummer, do you really-' Johnny was interrupted by Bosco delivering a series of jabs from both sides, uppercutting him in the jaw causing Johnny to become airborne, leaping over Johnny's propelled body, grabbing his legs, swinging him over his head and slamming his body violently onto a billiards table. For some odd reason, the words "12-HIT COMBO! MAGNIFISCENT" briefly floated above Bosco, and then disappeared. 'Thank you Bloody Roar 2!' Bosco announced. He looked down at Tommy, who was playing patty-cake with himself on the floor. 'Must have been laced,' Bosco supposed. Johnny had not known how these anthropomorphic hippies became so powerful, nor did he know where they got their weaponry, but the thing that angered Johnny the most was that someone had stolen his wallet while he lied unconscious near an eight-ball. This humiliating defeat required vengeance, and meant, "that Kung-Fu fucking tiger and jack-ass wolf" was on his hit list, right under "Will and Grace." Reminiscing made Johnny irascible. He shook his head, grunted, and moved on. He read the shop signs and observed the window displays. Johnny did not believe in moving out of the way for people, so basically he was like a churlish plow through people. Needless to say, he caught a lot of irate comments. He usually ignored these. It was rather fun when they got violent, however, because any fist moving quickly towards Johnny's face would be grabbed and thrown into oncoming traffic. No entertainment for Johnny though. No one would throw the first punch. "Bastards," Johnny complained, "I'd at least get to hurl 20 of you in New York." Johnny chanced to look right. The storeowner would regret this action. In the window were various televisions in an assortment of brands, colors, and sizes. One of them, however, was displaying something that induced homicidal psychosis. He caught a glimpse of it...two animated lions frolicking about in a field to the song of Elton John's "Can You Feel The Love Tonight?" Johnny's eye twitched and he began to cringe. He whipped out his shotgun and pulled back the hammers. Hollow booms and collapsing glass rang out through the city. All of the televisions had been mangled to the point of melted plastic and charred metal and glass. Sparks were flying about, an electrical fire suddenly spread throughout the adjacent stores, and for some inexplicable reason a milk truck exploded. The storeowner was wishing that he had put that 50% off sign sooner. "Does it feel something like that bitch?" Johnny retorted to the now destroyed television. He hid the shotgun in his duster and walked on, feeling a little bit better, but thinking he would have more fun terrorizing a karaoke bar. A fast paced orgy of metal on the Tampa Bay Bridge was a typical sight. The ocean view was magnificent, and it was the only thing remotely interesting at the moment-that, and Tommy sucking the gaseous contents of a whipped cream can. "HOOOOOOOOBAH!" Tommy declared, grinning contently, his claws rapping on the dashboard to Nirvana's "I Know You're Right." He popped open another brewsky, chugged it, inhaled a blunt, chugged the beer, sucked the whip can again, and repeated these actions as if it were some isometric exercise regimen. Bosco shook his head. "It's not a contest you know," Bosco told Tommy. "Maybe so," Tommy gargled while drinking the beer, "but I don't see any reason to take my time either." "Too many years with your fraternity buddies I'm presuming," Bosco deduced. "Where are the blocks of ice you're supposed to drink the scotch off of?" Bosco added humorously. "Tommy gulped the brew down. "Those guys are amateurs. You shouldn't even take any time to be screaming out random vowels if you're a true alcoholic." "Don't get voracious on me," Bosco warned Tommy, "this shit has to last us, and I don't plan to be sober in that demonic fane at any time unless the sandman summons...I'll have the cocaine for those moments." Tommy squinted. "Ever heard of Foldgers?" Tommy asked. "Fluff," Bosco sneered, veering through traffic precariously and receiving a lot of horn blasts and looks of terror. "Uh, this is a bridge man," Tommy said nervously, "not a good time to be implementing Need for Speed tactics." "Actually, it's the perfect time," Bosco argued, "The water will break our fall." "You know what, you're right," Tommy growled and said sarcastically, "and so will that semi in front of us and the cement below us and the S.U.V. adjacent to us. More will be broken than just the fucking fall my friend." Bosco nodded his head in agreement. "True," Bosco agreed, "but we actually have to hit something first." Bosco floored it. Tommy simply rubbed his head and groaned. He ducked in his seat, stuffed a one-hitter, lit it and inhaled. Tommy at times could be the more logical of the two and also the most depraved, a diabolical combination for a drug-abusing anthropomorphic wolf. He was used to Bosco's spontaneous and dangerous behavior. He honestly thought that Bosco did not need to be doing anything that could increase insanity, and he often wondered why Bosco was not behind a large glass panel rehearsing Shakespeare and craving an adrenal gland to chew on. Bosco continued to weave in and out of traffic, a rather bulky, alacritous sewing needle along the torso of the Tampa Bay Bridge. It was easy for Bosco not to worry about crashing into the watery depths below. He knew how to swim. Tommy only knew how to gulp for water as if it were air, and even that was but a vague memory when an alcoholic beverage was lying around. The movie lingered in Johnny Mitch Rocko's mind. It was an abomination to him. The life of a lion was that of philandering and gluttony, and Johnny was damn happy about this fact, as it was also an exact representation of a human's life as well. How the fuck are they making money off these uninspired formulaic pieces of shitifiscent animation? Johnny gritted his teeth. How did they indeed? The question floated through his mind and he found himself stroking his shotgun as if it were a loveable kitten. Maybe the little shrapnel storm of mine in my duster could give me answers. A notion popped Johnny's mind, and it seemed plausible enough, and then it became a desire to be placated. A little visit will be in order, and there will be no fucking housewarming gifts Walt. Johnny searched for some means of transportation. His mind caught the words Orlando on a Greyhound bus. The cat-like strength came in handy as he jumped atop the bus, his claws penetrating the roof for grip. The people on the bus surely would take no notice, as being in a bus station has been equated to being in your third-world country around the corner. If the police had anything to say about it, he could just hitch a ride with them-and there would be no qualms so long as the coppers were no longer on this physical plane and the radio had been rendered fucked. "Look mommy, it's Balto!" A little girl eyeing Tommy from her window exclaimed. Tommy had just opened a pint of Jim Bean and began quaffing it. The girl's mother laughed jovially. "Oh honey, you have such an imagination." Tommy took notice to the girl eyeing him. At about the same time, Jim Bean's ability to suck all oxygen from your body if ingested incorrectly took effect. Tommy choked and spitted the drink at the girl's window.  
"Fuck," Tommy said miserably, wiping his maw. "I shouldn't do that when driving with you-stomach feels like it's been whitewashed with ammonia. I'd bitchslap you for your recklessness if it didn't mean we'd meet certain doom." Bosco giggled insanely. "The hell you laughing about?" Tommy asked in a vexed tone. "The girl next to us is going to have a far different view on wolves thanks to you," Bosco replied smirking. Tommy looked over at the blue Chrysler van next to them and muttered, "Woops." The girl looked at her window curiously. She stared for a few moments, and then it hit her. "Mommy, Balto did what daddy did in the toilet last night when you were at the A.A. meeting."  
They eventually passed that blue Chrysler van and left The Tampa Bay Bridge. A mini-version of what appeared to be New York with palm trees came into view. The white, sun-baked road was treacherous to walk upon, and Tommy and Bosco pitied the barefoot pedestrian. A variety of establishments were in view. Billboards displayed the nearing amusement parks and related franchises with them. Hotels were abundant-even the rustic 70 year-old ones with the burnt out neon light with a build that looked more like the New Jersey projects-just with a lot of old white disgruntled men instead of bandana doting black men.  
"Not as many pawn shops here," Tommy noted. "The supply and demand of drug abusers has dwindled to nothing-we're in unknown territory."  
Bosco nodded. "It's as if the mere presence of Disney World has driven them out. I don't even think Eazy E could survive here."  
"Indeed," Tommy agreed, dunking his snout into a small bag of cocaine, snorting, and exclaiming, "HOOOOBEEJOOOWAH!"  
Bosco rolled his guys.  
"Is that sound effect really necessary?"  
"Fuck yes it is," he snapped, dipping his tongue into the bag as if were an industrial size-portion of Pixie Stick powder.  
"Sweet Mother of Heart Stimulants!" Bosco exclaimed. "You're going to be wired like a stun gun in a Olympic-sized pool of electric eels!"  
"Fun fun fun fun fun fun fun," Tommy rambled excitedly, taking out his .45 and firing a shot at a Taco Bell sign. The sign sparked and shorted out.  
"WHERE'S THE FUCKING RING? I DEMAND A CIGAR!" Tommy announced, his eyes crazed like that of a 5-year old after clearing out Willy Wonka's factory and then hiding the bodies.  
Bosco ears slumped back.  
"Oh damn," he muttered despondently.  
"HEY! YOU'RE THE ONE PULLING THE DUKES OF HAZZARD TACTICS ON A ROAD INUNDANTED WITH FUTURE COFFIN ACOMMODATERS!"  
"Yeah, is that so bad?" Bosco replied. "The undertakers could use some overtime."  
"And one of the Sigfreed and Roy tigers could use another piece of ass," Tommy insulted crazily.  
Bosco's eyes shifted to Tommy as he stopped at a stoplight.  
"One too many hits for you Jack Nicholson," Bosco announced.  
Tommy's eyes widened as Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon" came on.  
"YES!" Tommy screamed gleefully.  
Tommy began singing the lyrics to the song in his own, wolf-like howling tone. Bosco ears remained slumped back. Where tigers had a mind- altering substance that was good for the health, wolves had Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon" as their theme song. "Eye of the Tiger" never really did anything for Bosco.  
Johnny had been banging his head on the roof of the Greyhound Bus for about 15 minutes now. The heat in combination with the duster was beginning to let off the scent of cows with fresh perms. Needless to say, the claws that had dug into the roof and the incessant din had startled a few of the bus passengers. The bus driver reassured them that it was only the spirit of Hitler trying to learn street drums, and that Bubba had found him and that Hitler needed a tether. They all exhaled in relief upon this reassurance.  
"WHY DOESN'T THIS BUS JUST RUN THE FUCKING RICED HONDA IN FRONT OF US DOWN?" Johnny snarled. "Survival of the diesel bitches!"  
The idea of jumping on one of the bass thumping, gaudy, speeding pieces of foreign hardware, ripping off the roof, and throwing the drivers and passengers into the closest semi with the most apathetic southern driver at the wheel was tempting Johnny to go on a whole other genocide completely. This quickly changed when he saw a billboard for Disney World. Its slogan was something about wishing upon a star, which Johnny knew was physically impossible but wished more people would try it literally anyhow. Johnny despised this anti-physics whimsical bullshit and shot the sign with his shotgun. Mickey and Minnie had been rendered decapitated. He then wondered if he should kill them Richard the Lionheart style.  
"Lionheart? HA!" Johnny said to himself. "He should have taken that seven foot sword and shoved it up all their pompous French Asses. That long- haired multi-lingual prick can claim no allegiance from me!"  
"Oh lord," Bosco complained, "last thing I need is a bunch of illiterate teenagers blasting some random rap C.D. they found at a yard sale in their mobile hunk of plastic they call "The Shiznit."  
Tommy nodded his head. It had drowned out his favorite song. The unknowing impudence of the passengers in the car in front of him would have to be punished. Tommy fired the Colt Python at one of the wing-like attachments at the car. Tommy meant to just blow off this attachment, but the impact of the bullet on the Honda caused the whole vehicle to shatter into a glittering spectacle of fragments. Bosco snickered.  
"Well shit," Bosco said bemusedly, "you didn't even the gun for that one. Should have just hurled a beer can at it."  
"Oh I couldn't do that," Tommy said in a concerned tone with wide- open red eyes. "I'm environmentally conscience."  
They cackled diabolically. So did Johnny on top of the bus that was next to Bosco and Tommy.  
"Heh, that was a pretty good shot," Johnny complimented. The bus proceeded to run over the ruins of the Honda and its passengers, which fortunately just happened to be a few empty containers of Tupperware (though the difference between the Tupperware and the suspected passengers would offer no distinction.) Johnny turned to his left to compliment the wonderful aces that destroyed the pansy pocket rocket. His smile slowly transformed into a cringe of rage. There they were-the damned anthropomorphic hippies that had beaten him down in the bar. He would have to find a ride to Orlando another time. It was time to make two checks on his Shit List.  
  
Uh oh! It looks like that wacky wolf and tenacious tiger are in for a world of trouble! Will Bosco and Tommy ward off the lunatic lion? Will firefights and death ensue? Will I stop trying to make the same beginning letters for my adjectives and nouns? Stay tuned! And remember! Only you can prevent sexually transmitted diseases! 


End file.
